


Hardly Discreet

by TheSweetestThing



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 07:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4951687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSweetestThing/pseuds/TheSweetestThing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Oberyn was a renowned womanizer what with his eight bastard daughters, long-term paramour and fondness for men and women both. Of course it would make sense that he of all people would sneak into a Lannister’s bedchambers and take the maidenhead of the Imp’s wife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hardly Discreet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silberias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/gifts).



It wasn’t hard to see why every noble lord and lady in court started to gossip once they got wind of Prince Oberyn’s activities. He had hardly been discreet, the way he sauntered to the Lannister's chambers with not one whit of care for the whispers that followed him. In fact, he seemed to  _enjoy_ the way the maids gawked and lord and ladies watched wide-eyed. He was a renowned womanizer what with his eight bastard daughters, long-term paramour and fondness for men and women both. Of course it would make sense that he of all people would sneak into a Lannister’s bedchambers and take the maidenhead of the Imp’s wife.

“He would like a wolf.” The noblewomen of court sniff, noses upturned with disgust as they smooth their skirts and cast derisive looks over companion's shoulders at the Prince. Trust a Dornishman to covet the disgraced daughter of a traitor to the Throne, the Imp's wife and a pretty young thing at that. He had no morals, seemed to want to make a mockery of everyone with his foolish attraction to the she-wolf. 

“I heard laughing the other night.” Alla Tyrell says confidentially, eyes taking in the women clustered around her with juicy delight. “And Podrick Payne told me feathers were strewn all over the place when the Imp went in later.”

“It’s true.” A maid confirms smugly, and the high-and-mighty women of court who had never noticed her before hang off her every word now bright-eyed and curious. “I had to collect them myself. Lord Tyrion was quite annoyed.”

She has specific instructions from the Queen Mother herself to inspect the sheets every morning as Lord Tyrion and his wife break their fast, and has spent more time then appropriate staring at the girls belly trying to discern if there is a small curveness to her, and if only she were one of the Lady's more personal maids she could see for herself!  

“Well is there any wonder? The shame of it!" Falena Stokesworth is quite aghast, shaking her head in disgust. "Knowing his wife  - who is lucky to be married to the Lannisters and not dead - is bedding another right beneath his nose!” 

“What nose?” 

The harsh mocking laughter of the ladies echoes around the Red Keep, but the door to Lord Tyrion's bedchamber remains firmly locked and bolted all the same, the occupants quite unaffected by the chatter.

* * *

Sansa sits cross legged on her bed, thick nightgown pooling around her knees as she gazes at the Dornish Prince in her bedchambers. He finishes lighting the candles and turns to her, taking off his boots with slow and steady and careful hands to sit opposite. Eyes bright and laughter lines crinkling as he gazes at her expectant face, the lips puckered up.

“Well?” Sansa asks expectantly, hair glowing copper in the soft flames that cast shadows over Oberyn's handsome figure. She shifts herself to be more comfortable, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “What happened next?”

A lazy chuckle rolls off his tongue as he recalls. “When the captain discovered I had decieved him and beaten him at his own game he turned violent as men are wont to do, and I jumped ship - but not without first severing his sails." 

"You didn't!" She laughs, mirth glimmering in her eyes. 

"When have I lied to you?" He arches an eyebrow daring her to name a time but she can only giggle at the image of him paddling furiously in the azure waters.

"You could have drowned!" 

"I was raised in the Water Gardens. The sea holds no fear for me." Oberyn tells her, and Sansa believes nothing could fear this foolhardy Prince who leapt into unknown depths and currents after easily exposing the lies a swindling merchant had committed with great delight. She tries to imagine Oberyn twenty years earlier, lean and bold and fiercely taking out any wronged man he found in his adventures.

"And as it happens, a ship named the _Feathered Kiss_ was nearby and helped me aboard." Oberyn smiles in recollection. 

"Then what happened?" Sansa speaks into the silence and Oberyn breaks from his memories to smile at her, teeth glinting.

"The Captain of the ship tended to my wounds-"

Sansa snorts, emitting the un-ladylike sound before she can restrain herself but Oberyn's grin only grows in response. "You had wounds?"

"A wounded soul."

She lets out a peal of laughter at his jape, the way his eyes softened in mock misery at his imagined hurts, and she can almost picture him in a mummer's show with his hand on his heart, ladies in the audience with tears rolling down their cheeks wanting to ease his suffering.

"And he tended to you well?" 

"Aye. _She_ gave me a gift too."

"A daughter." Sansa does not need to guess, the way a genuine smile now crosses Oberyn's lips, a fond look about him.

"Sarella. My fourth. She is in Oldtown as of late, in the very steps of her Father." 

Surely he could not mean she had took up a place in the Citadel earning links. He must mean travelling, and how Sansa wishes she were anywhere away from Kings Landing - although here, in her lord husband's room talking to a man who is certainly not her husband is not unpleasant. 

The first time Prince Oberyn had knocked on her door at nightfall she had thought him crazy, wanting to take her maidenhead while Tyrion - well she didn't know where Tyrion was exactly, but her maid Shae was absent too and Sansa had clung to the doorframe fearfully. Strangely, Prince Oberyn had only smiled and introduced himself, and said it would be nice to have a friend in a lions den would it not? She understood then that he too hated the Lannister's for what they did - to her family, to his family years before, and every night since he has arrived with books or food or wine in tow always with a smile on his lips and stories prepared. 

Some nights he would offer a hand and they would dance, Sansa barefoot with her hair tumbling down her back, giggles streaming from her lips as they skipped around the room foolishly, childishly. Other times she would sit and listen avidly to his stories of his life, memories of his murdered sister. Sometimes he even indulged her with a tale of her own families’ history, her Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Brandon as children. How Oberyn had seen them at the great tourney of Harrenhal, how everyone believed her Uncle to be a fool to shout at a King but Oberyn believes he would have done the same and worse to save Elia.

One time she threw a pillow at him in jest and he threw one back, and feathers rained down on the rich carpets as they waged war, slipping and squealing and Sansa half-heartedly shushing him. That was a  _good_ night, the most fun she has had since her Father Lord Eddard died, and they piled pillows and threw blankets over chaises and bedposts to make hideaway dens, the feathers surrounding them like a nest, and she had curled into his side breathless and happy, sleep tickling her eyelids that drooped close.  

Some nights she would fall into a doze and sleep fitfully, waking up with a gasp to see he had never left her side. Other nights she wouldn’t sleep a wink and they would make up their own funny games with twisted fingers and complicated rules, or gamble with a hair ribbon or lemon cake (for Sansa forbid him from using his own money however much he claimed it would be jolly fun). They created stories and legends, songs and poems, each taking a verse, and Oberyn's prose was as flowery as Sansa's and just as attractive if more so, and they wiled away the long hours until sunrise content. That was the time when he would leave her for a few hours sleep of his own, a stolen moment with Ellaria. Sansa would use the time to sleep and wake up with mussed hair and a bleary smile, dressing herself pretty, carefully assembling her armour to descend on the battlefield that was court under King Joffrey's control. 

Her Lord Husband didn’t pry. When he answered the door to the Martell Prince he would merely watch in silence, lips pressed in a thin line. There was no doubt he believed the rumours, but Sansa didn’t care. There were only two occasions when they kissed, once just the briefest brushing of lips while dancing to some silly song, the other deeper before Oberyn gently prised her off and told her with eons of patience and gratitude behind her eyes that he was extremely honoured he had chosen her so, but mayhaps she should save stuff like that for when she were older. That was last week, and she had retired flushed and silent to bed immediately after, Oberyn creeping away into the night.

Sansa stretches out on her bed, lolling her head on one side to watch Oberyn who yawns, and scratches at the stubble on his chin. He works long hours on the Council, has longer hours still with Ellaria and now shares his spare time with Sansa, and guilt swirls in her stomach for a moment for he looks so tired and worn. His eyes are ever-bright though, twinkling merrily at her like she is a source of grand entertainment even though it is her that forces him to partake in different mindless pleasures. 

"And what else would you have us do tonight? Is it to be dancing or stories? A mummer's play? Sewing?"

"Sewing?" Sansa giggles, imagining Oberyn hunched over with a needle attempting to embroider dresses. 

"I can sew mine own socks I'll have you know, Lady Stark." Oberyn says and Sansa's arm snakes down to press one hand flat against his, feeling the heat flicker on her own palm, deep in her belly. She gazes up at him, and his long fingers dwarf her small delicate ones, but his are ever so more deadly as he threads them through hers. She squeezes tight.

"Tell me again," She whispers. "What you're going to do."

"Later." Oberyn mumurs, pressing a kiss on her hairline, breath hot on her skin and Sansa hums in agreement before rolling lazily off the side of her bed. Her moonblood is upon her causing dull cramps in her stomach, her skin clammy and unbearingly hot from the full fire Oberyn had firmly stoked earlier. She wanders around restlessly, swishing her nightgown back and forth as Oberyn settles on her bed - her and Tyrion's bed, watching her as keen as a snake might eye a mouse. Sansa is no mouse, she is a wolf, and wolves do not cower before snakes - especially those that would twine beside her with not one hiss of complaint. 

Why Prince Oberyn would waste his time cheering a girl up when he was a grown man with far more options available was beyond Sansa at the start, and sometimes she still catches herself and is amazed to see a Prince in her room, lounged on a chair with ruffled hair and glittering silks. He is a man of age, older then her Father was even, but she sees barely any sign upon him and his lust for life makes his weathered face only more attractive, what with the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes. He had seen enough countries and adventures to last several mens lifetimes never mind just one, and he always has an ancedote or experience or opinon to voice.  

The curtains at the opposite side of the room billow in the wind and she brushes them aside to lean her elbows on the weathered stone, gazing out at the city below. The sky is a million shades of colour, dark ink black and bruised blue, with scattered stars twinkling behind whisper thin clouds and silver fog. Lights blink and waver in the distance, and a hundred leagues away her home Winterfell lies in smoking half-ruins, inhabited by Roose Bolton. Her Father's man, her  _brother's_ man, just like Theon before him, and Sansa is so homesick, nostalgia twisting deep in her gut. She sags, stomach aching but Oberyn is suddenly there with one hand on her hip to keep her upright. Hand warm, nightgown bunched and ruffled at the waist and she stills. 

“You know all the stars?” His breath is hot on her neck as he lounges next to her. She shakes her head, the night air kissing her hot cheeks and he slowly manouvers behind her, places a thumb on her heart beat thrumming in her neck, gently tilting her head up and left. “See those there? The five points." She nods, staring up at what she thinks are the stars Oberyn directs her to. "It's the Ghost."

"Why is it called that?" Sansa asks quietly, breeze lifting the ends of her red hair. She remembers her half-brother Jon has a direwolf Ghost, and she remembers Lady- 

"Sometimes you cannot see a glimpse of it at all. Supposedly some men see it clear while one stood beside another may see naught. Just like ghosts, I suppose."

"Ghost's aren't real." Sansa says flatly. "If they were, I'd see them all the time."

"Especially here." Oberyn sighs, fingers tracing patterns on Sansa's hip, dragging his thumb along her nightgown absently. "The Citadel taught me that it was all the angles of the person, and the height of the individual and the thickness of the fog or cloud. We had charts and many calculations."

"It sounds complicated." Sansa murmurs, leaning back into his chest. Warm and solid and reassuring behind her, the planes of his chest hard but packed with sinewy muscle, and he always smells so _good._ Sunshine and spices. His breath tickles her ear and she closes her eyes briefly as a shiver shoots through her entire body. Her head lolls back and he whispers more constellations to her, the Sow and King's Crown and Sword of the Morning.

“There’s one you can see in the North.” Sansa whispers. “I don't know if you can see it here but it’s called the Ice Dragon. It's tail points South, but it's eyes always look North... always look home” She turns to gaze at him, eyes suddenly watery. "There's a story Old Nan used to tell me of an Ice Dragon but I can't remember..." Bitter grief blocks her throat for Old Nan was surely dead now too, and everyone she has ever known-

"I can tell you stories if you wish." Oberyn offers, and Sansa nods, turning away from the window and the curtains that swirled around their silhouettes. "You can eat your gift too, before I forget..."

"Gift?" Sansa perks up, eyebrows trembling upwards in pleasant surprise. "You shouldn't."

"I should and I did. It isn't much."

He didn't understand bless him, that everything was too much for Sansa now. She has not had gifts in so long she has quite forgotten the feeling, and before when she had them she were content enough with her fine dresses and jewels that she could accept gracefully. Now, with her dresses quite forlorn and several inches too small for her any gift was too much, to her extreme embrassment. It didn't stop her from accepting them though - for how could she refuse a Prince of Dorne? 

Oberyn ambles to the sidetable, where a handkerchief is wrapped into a small square. He presses it into her hand and she unfolds it cautiously, a sprinkling of sugar spiralling onto the floor, dusting her lap. A thick cake sits proudly in the middle of Oberyn's sun and spear adorned handkerchief, golden yellow and fluffy, a slice of lemon balanced with the upmost precision on the top along with sugar and drizzled honey.

“Lemon cake.” She beams up at him as she drops down onto the chaise lounge, dragging a pillow over her lap, crimson tassels flopping over her knees. “My favourite.”

Oberyn smiles. "The cooks made it special." 

He pours himself a goblet of wine from a crystal decanter, the thick wine sloshing the sides as Sansa picks at the yellow crumbs delicately, little pink tongue darting out. 

"Nice?”

She nods enthusiastically and Oberyn continues to sup Lord Tyrion's wine with a wrinkle of his nose. Sansa knows it is because it is not Dornish wine - he believes only the wine from his part of Westeros is juicy and strong enough for a man. When she's finished her cake he offers his cup to her and her lips press against the edge of the cup exactly where his lips had touched moments before, and she swallows the wine like a hungry bird. She licks her scarlet tinged lips when only the dregs remain and Oberyn gently brushes away the drop that quivers on her chin. 

Sansa decides they should be mummers next, and Oberyn spend the next hour soliloquizing to her dramatically, putting on a grand affair with numerous props. Sansa laughs giddily, barefeet dancing on the fine carpet twisting and turning nimbly, and when Oberyn finishes the story with flair he scoops her into his arms and spins her around. Her hands interlace with his, swinging them far away before dragging him closer and she giggles dizzily, half-drunk on wine and foolish Princes with flower petals in their hair. Her long auburn locks are a wild thick tangle, bouncing down her back and she collapses onto her bed with a huff of content. 

She rolls over onto her back and stares up at Oberyn who's not even tried to remove the plait she had ever so carefully created with his hair. It droops over one shoulder and she knows the hour is late and soon he will have to leave. But they will have tomorrow night, and the night after, for however much her days were Tyrion's her nights were forever Oberyn's.  

"It suits you." Sansa says languidly, lips turning up into a lazy smile. She splays her arms out across her bed, hands creeping over the velvet covers, and his fingers catch hers as she knew they would.  

“Why do you do this?” Sansa asks, and her crown of laced hair-ribbons slips down her forehead at her frown, fraying and falling apart at the seams. “Why do you help make my happy?” 

"I did not know it was a crime, to make girls happy."

"You know what I mean." She clutches a pillow fat with feathers to her stomach with her spare hand, wide cornflower eyes staring up at his. “Tyrion-”

“If I’m here.” Oberyn says, every word carefully measured. His dark eyes gaze into hers, jaw tightening with distaste. “Your husband won’t be.”

“You won’t leave?” She asks, face screwing up with distrust and his voice is so soft, so calm, even as he gently chides her.

"When have I ever left when you needed me?" 

He keeps proving her wrong at every turn, holding steadfast her promises and urges, always listening and respecting her opinions and thoughts. If she told him to leave her now and never return he would and she yawns tiredly quite worn out from the frolics. He is known as a murderer and a hot-headed Dornishman at that, but he has never not touched her with the utmost care and courtsey, asking her every time he first touched her hand, her hip, her lips.

He leans back against the headboard and Sansa pulls the drapes back to hide them in a crimson and gold cocoon. Behind the curtains was the world that would hurt her so, but here with Oberyn warm beside her, his hands lightly stroking her hair she cannot be scared in the slightest.   

“You can sleep peacefully.” He croons, and his shirt is ruffled, face flecked with glitter and he still has her plait in his hair scruffy at the edges and Sansa could love this man, this Prince so terribly easily. As easy as breathing, and Sansa sighs softly, face stuffed into his side listening to the beat of his heart.

She closes her eyes, fingers curling into the warm fabric of his shirt for he was always so  _warm,_ and her cold feet curl into the hollow curve in the back of his knees and his thigh judders from the chill. She sighs contentedly, and her lips can almost touch his skin through the thin silk and he is cinnamon brown and black haired and nothing like the people of court, and she inhales his familiar scent and hopes one day she can marry a Dornish man. She imagines a Dornish man up North, for Oberyn in all his travels had never been past the Neck and Sansa would love for him to see the Wall someday. Perhaps she can show it to him one day in the future, and she imagines the Dornishman shivering wildly in the cold and doesn't stifle the smile that arises.

She is so safe and warm, Oberyn humming under his breath and she should fall asleep easily except- 

“Oberyn?” Sansa whispers. His perfume sticks to her skin, her body where it touches his warm and she rustles the bedcovers when she nudges his hip at his closed eyes that slowly re-open.  

“Go to sleep little wolf.” Oberyn's chest rumbles as he speaks quietly, hands threading through her hair still, playing with the ends. He brushes one lock over the bridge of her nose, dusting and dancing on her cheek.

“I can’t.” She gazes up at him with large blue eyes, long lashes brushing sharp cheekbones. “Tell me again, how you’re going to kill the Lannister’s.”

“Well,” His lips graze her hairand she shivers in delight, neck craning up to watch his velvet lips part. “I’m going to go for Tywin first.”

“Because of your sister?” She traces idle suns on his hand, skirting the back of his palm, dragging her finger across his skin watching the brown flesh ripple. “And niece and nephew.”

“And your brother, and Mother.” 

A smile curls on her lips because he remembers, remembers ever little detail she has ever spilled of them through tears of joy or sorrow, whispered confessions in the dead of night. She imagines Oberyn swinging down a sword to cut off Lord Tywin's head, displaying it on the very pike they had placed her Father. Joffrey would hate that, and she sighs sweetly and grips his hand hard with anticipation. She wonders if she's a bad person to want something terrible to happen to Joffrey, but Oberyn always reassures her it is natural. 

“What are you going to do?”

“Well,” Oberyn drawls, a dimple growing in his cheek as his teeth glint in a smile. “They don’t call me the Red Viper for nothing. First I’m going to poison him and the Mountain.”

She is insaitably curious on every aspect of his life and she cannot resist asking though she isn't sure she wants to know the answer. “What poison?”

“One they can’t survive.” His lips ghost her ear and she nods, breath rattling in her throat for she knows what comes next, for it is as frequent and predictable as he slipping into her room has become. 

“Then what?” 

She knows what.

“I’m going to make sure this boy King regrets everything he did to you, sweetling.”

She buries her head in his side as emotion takes her, mewling a sigh of content when he plants a kiss on her forehead in response to her tears. She wraps her arms around his waist.

“Thank you.” Sansa sighs lovingly, and believes him when he breathes it is his pleasure. He tucks a blanket over her, whispering to her of far away lands ruled by fair maidens and islands where people worship love. The candles burn low, and her eyelids are so heavy, mind half gone with dreams of dresses and silks and handsome men who hold her close and whisper she is safe. She twines with a lock of his hair blindly, lips parting in a worn sigh.  

“Everyone in court thinks we are carrying on an affair behind my Lord Husband’s back.” She mumbles sleepily. “My reputation-”

“You know the truth.” Oberyn whispers to her, and his lips press onto her cheek. “So why should it matter what they think?"

She lets herself fall into dreams, Oberyn's arm tight around her waist, one hand threaded through her hair and when he slips away a few hours later in the darknes she doesn't stir, a small smile grazing her mouth. Oberyn watches her for one long moment, the way in sleep she looks more childlike and innocent then ever, and how any man could brutilize and hurt one so kind pains him. It doesn't shock him sadly, and he walks away with a heavy sigh, plodding along the corridors of the Red Keep back to his own chambers. If someone were to pass him they would see a frustrated Prince, hair mussed with a long plait forged by a tiny hand, glitter on his eyes and shirt ruffled, lemon cake crumbs collected on his shirt and they would scoff in disgust. He was so ridicilous, so loose, a cad who dressed up and got drunk and played with men and women both. 

It wasn’t hard to see why every noble lord and lady in court started to gossip once they got wind of Prince Oberyn’s activities. He was a renowned womanizer what with his eight bastard daughters, long-term paramour and fondness for men and women both. He was the late brother of Princess Elia Martell who had been brutally murdered on the order of Lannister's, was a Dornishman with every intention of revenge and retribution, was a father of eight and loved children dearly. 

Of course it would make sense that he of all people would sneak into a Lannister’s bedchambers and comfort the grieving Sansa Stark.


End file.
